


Clothes Make the Man

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clothing, Clothing Porn, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Suit Porn, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:29:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1452217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eye wandered over the suit on the right, admiring the fabric. It was cut out of a black olive virgin wool with an overcheck pattern in jet black mohair. The lines of the pattern stood out glossily against the muted background of the virgin wool, imbibing the ensemble with a suggestion of discreet affluence. Both jacket and trousers were tightly cut, clearly intending to lengthen already long legs to a staggering height and take inches from a waist that was indecently narrow to begin with. Mycroft concluded the attire would suit his younger brother perfectly well. His mind clad him in the apparel, combined it with a pearly grey shirt and calf hide ankle boots, and marvelled at the sumptuous image.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clothes Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daasgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/gifts).



> Betaed by the fantastic frozen_delight. I can’t thank her enough for providing me with the idea for this fic and all her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course.
> 
> Written for the marvellous daasgrrl to thank her for writing such amazing holmescest. Somehow this fic got way out of hand. Still, I do hope the description of certain attractive men in stunning suits and shirts will please you a little at least.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

_“Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”_  
Mark Twain

 

The first nip of autumn tickled Mycroft’s face when he opened the front door and stepped outside. After pulling the door shut and locking it he lingered a moment on the doorstep to savour the chill in the air. It felt clean and crisp, tingling in his lungs, the sultry heaviness of the summer smog chased away by the breeze that brushed his freshly shaven cheeks, still stinging from the cologne he’d daubed them with. Above his head the London sky stretched away in an expanse of glorious blue, its colour as clear and startlingly lively as a Flemish Primitive painting coaxed back to its former splendour by a clever restorer’s hands that swiped away the veil of dirt deposited by time and vile neglect. 

“Where to, sir?” James asked after he had installed himself behind the steering wheel. 

“Baker Street,” answered Mycroft. In the rear mirror he watched James’ eyes flash up in understanding.

“A fine day for it, sir.” 

“Exactly.” Mycroft smiled. Once he was certain James’ gaze was locked on the road, he twirled the handle of his umbrella in anticipation of the day ahead, enjoying the easy glide of the smooth wood against the skin of his palm and the lush sheen of the folds of holly green silk as they twisted and turned to be caressed by the muted light that slanted through the tinted glass of the car windows. 

The flow of traffic was rather light this morning. They made it into the city centre in a short time. There, James slowed the car to a crawl to better anticipate the unexpected movements of both cyclists and pedestrians. The tour buses were unloading their respective herds of tourists. Americans, stomping along the streets on trainers that reminded Mycroft of nothing so much as ferryboats, both by their lack of design as the bulk they were straining under. Chinese and Japanese, chattering amongst themselves and flocking together like flights of drab geese, ready for take-off. Elderly Germans and Italians on sturdy shoes and in sensible coats, taking the history as well as the architecture in their stride, determined to be unimpressed since they had so much of those at home. Weaving between them were the people of London themselves; sharply-dressed city bankers, sedate government clerks, shop assistants, rowdy school children in the dreary uniformity of their uniforms. Pensioners were already perching themselves on their favourite park benches, keen to profit from one of the last summery days, and to watch the endless roll of traffic bustling back and forth across the roads. 

The car drew to a halt opposite 221B at ten sharp. Before James had had a chance to unbuckle his seatbelt the black front door was thrown open wide and Sherlock emerged in a swirl of coat and drama. He must have been waiting behind the window and bolted down the stairs the minute he saw the nose of the sedan turn the corner.

“You might as well stay seated, James,” Mycroft commented lightly. A second later the car door was yanked open and Sherlock slid into the seat next to Mycroft.

“Good morning, brother dear,” Mycroft greeted his younger sibling. “I’m delighted to find you’re looking forward to our little outing as much as I am.”

“Thank goodness you’re here, I thought you’d never come.” Sherlock ignored the polite welcome. His voice sounded a little breathless. “Mrs Hudson has been in full ranting mode ever since she discovered the hole I burned in the carpet yesterday evening. I explained it was an accident, mind you, but to no avail. She’s determined to be angry with me, claiming the rag is an antique that belonged to her great-grandmother.”

“Drive on, James,” directed Mycroft. “Brook Street first, I think,” he added, turning towards Sherlock, who nodded his consent.

“Yes, sir.” Cautiously, James guided the car away from the kerb and into the traffic. 

“It’s very annoying,” Sherlock stated. “She made less of a fuss when I shot the wall. I proposed to drape a newspaper over it so nobody would be any the wiser, but she just exploded.”

Mycroft blinked to rid himself of the image of Mrs Hudson blowing up in thousands of scraps of gristle and bone – after all, it wasn’t too outlandish a notion if one took the scientific interests of her tenant into consideration – before addressing his brother. 

“If it was her great-grandmother’s, it must hold considerable sentimental value for her,” he mused. “It would certainly explain its appearance, even before the damage you inflicted. I’ll talk to her. Just try to be a little more careful next time.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, staring out of the window with great deliberation. After a moment’s consideration Mycroft resolved to let it pass; Sherlock really did look a little pale around the nose.

“You breakfasted, though?” he enquired. “We have a busy day ahead of us.”

“Mrs Hudson fed me my tea and biscuits,” Sherlock replied, twitching his nose. “Really Mycroft, don’t tell me a little traipsing around the shops is going to tire you out. All you will have to do all day is plant your behind on a settee and have some shop girl serve you your double espresso or tea with a _financier_ or a _macaron_. Even someone as inherently lazy as you are couldn’t claim that to be a hardship.”

“I was only thinking of you, brother mine, as ever.”

“Oh, _that_.” Sherlock had the grace to colour, just a little, the blush contrasting charmingly with the ivory of his throat and the powder blue shirt it rose out of. Mycroft remembered insisting to buy Sherlock the hideously expensive garment the previous summer, completely bedazzled by all the celestial paleness beneath the ebony mop of angelic curls. Sherlock being Sherlock, Mycroft vacillated between supposing his brother’s decision to wear the shirt today had been totally random, the item being the closest to hand in his wardrobe, or decided upon after much speculation, with Sherlock reviving its effect on Mycroft in his mind and aiming to have his elder brother even more on the edge of his seat all day.

Unfortunately, as ever Sherlock’s contrition got swallowed quickly by wounded pride. The delightful flush faded from his cheekbones. “You know I’d just helped Greg arrest the Davies gang the day before. It was in the papers.”

“Yes, Sherlock. I do read them.”

“Well, stop nagging at me then.” His lower lip dropped slightly and settled into a determined pout. 

Inwardly, Mycroft sighed. The tip of his forefinger hovered over the button to raise the solid partition but he resisted the urge. They’d discussed this, repeatedly, and agreed that raising the partition was the shortest route to raising suspicion and having tongues wagging. James might be a reliable chauffeur, but he was only human, and thus fallible. Let him see them snub each other, and hear them argue and observe them engage in a little sibling warfare every now and then. But God forbid they ever gave him reason to suspect there might be more to their brotherly relationship than met the less watchful eye. Sherlock, naturally, regarded the whole necessary secrecy with scorn, frequently declaring Mycroft’s anxieties to be ludicrous. Mycroft supposed, then, he was incredibly fortunate to have his wayward little brother so enamoured of his elder sibling that he was willing to submit himself to the rules Mycroft imposed, for the good of both of them.

By now the great elm trees of Grosvenor Square loomed on their right, straggling in their late summer attire. The first leaves were already being shed, floating down lazily on the gentle breeze.

“What time would you like me to pick you up again, sir?” James asked.

“I thought we’d end with tea at the Dorchester,” Mycroft addressed his little brother.

“If we must,” Sherlock grumbled, flipping up the collar of his coat to indicate his disgruntlement.

“The Dorchester at six, James,” Mycroft decided. He tightened his grip on the handle of his umbrella, deriving comfort from the solid warmth of the polished Maplewood. Beside him, Sherlock drew down the corner of his mouth but refrained from further comment.

With a deft manoeuvre James slowed the car to a halt on the corner of Grosvenor Square and Brook Street. As was his wont Sherlock didn’t give Mycroft’s chauffeur a chance to properly fulfil his function, throwing open the door himself and flinging himself from the car in one fluid motion. Mycroft waited until James had opened the door for him, then he clambered out and ambled to the sidewalk at a sedate pace.

“Have a nice day, sir,” James said before driving off. His task for the rest of the day was an easy one. Make himself scarce first and start a round collecting parcels and bags at the various outlets later.

On the pavement Sherlock was hopping impatiently from one foot onto the other. “Do you have to be that slow?” he complained. “A snail on crutches is faster than you are.” 

Mycroft paid no heed to his grievances. “You really should stay seated until James opens the door for you,” he chided instead. “The man derives a certain amount of pride and satisfaction from doing his job as it should be. In robbing him from its execution you’re being childish and unkind.”

“Oh, do shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock groused, driving his balled fists into the pockets of his Belstaff. “You’re being tedious. It’s annoying.”

However, he wore a convincing enough facet of contrition, so Mycroft pursed his lips and gestured with his umbrella in the direction of Brook Street. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Sherlock broke into a stride, as eager as a foal being led out of the stables on the first warm day of April, nostrils flaring, and the curls on his head bouncing in accord to the spring in his step. Although Mycroft’s legs matched his brother’s for length he had to break into a most undignified trot to keep up with him. The security detail that had leapt from the car behind them fared a little better. Thankfully, after a mere two hundred yards Sherlock grounded to a halt, his gaze latched onto the storefront on their left.

Mycroft observed Sherlock first, the suits on display in the window next. “Which one?” he asked. His eye wandered over the suit on the right, admiring the fabric. It was cut out of a black olive virgin wool with an overcheck pattern in jet black mohair. The lines of the pattern stood out glossily against the muted background of the virgin wool, imbibing the ensemble with a suggestion of discreet affluence. Both jacket and trousers were tightly cut, clearly intending to lengthen already long legs to a staggering height and take inches from a waist that was indecently narrow to begin with. Mycroft concluded the attire would suit his younger brother perfectly well. His mind clad him in the apparel, combined it with a pearly grey shirt and calf hide ankle boots, and marvelled at the sumptuous image. 

Sherlock cocked his head towards the suit exhibited on the left, a nice enough costume in midnight black pincord. 

“Tolerable,” voted Mycroft. “How about the other one?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the suit Mycroft had desperately fallen in love with. “Boring,” came his immediate verdict, the tone of his voice a sure indication of his exasperation with the vapid commands imposed upon him by the rules of day-to-day life. 

“Boring?” Mycroft lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

“Yes. Boring, banal, tedious, laborious, dull as dishwater, whatever takes your fancy. It’s a boring suit for boring idiots stupid enough to believe clothes can make up for what they lack in character or personality.”

“Ah, that would never do for you,” Mycroft conceded. “But, in this, as in everything, you would be the exception to the rule, I think. Shall we go inside and see how the pincord fits you?”

In the shop they were welcomed with the courteous warmth exuded towards customers who had earned themselves a reputation for lavish spending in the past. One assistant divested them of their coats and scarfs (Mycroft indicated he’d keep his umbrella at hand) while the other made small talk, enquiring after their health, elaborating on some of the items in the new collection which were certain to suit the younger Mr Holmes’ fancy, while gently guiding Mycroft towards one of the buff leather seats in front of the changing cubicles.

“A double espresso?” he asked, and in a fraction of a second it materialised on the side table, complete with a shiny stainless steel platter bearing a choice selection of _financiers_ and chocolate _macarons_.

Pretending to take no notice of Sherlock’s smirk Mycroft directed the assistant towards a search for the right size of the pincord.

“Ah,” the man wheezed upon taking a good look at the suit Sherlock was wearing, a light cool wool in Davy’s grey. “That held well, didn’t it. May I?” He slid his hand over the sleeve and tugged lightly at the edge. “Hardly any wear at all.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock looked extremely pleased. “My landlady told me the dry cleaner waxed poetic on the excellent quality and durability of the cloth when she collected it three weeks ago.” He bent down from the waist and drew his fingers along the lower part of the trouser legs. “These were coated with muck, an interesting mixture of blood and other body fluids and grease. You wouldn’t believe the smell; the murderer had dumped the body in a skip, you see. I had to throw away my socks and I was certain the trousers were done for. But they’re as good as new.”

“Quite,” the assistant murmured, blanching just the tiniest bit. Mycroft silently applauded him for his imperturbability. Nevertheless the man made a beeline for the pincord and waived the honour of serving their client to his colleague with admirable grace.

“Do you like this one?” The younger shop assistant held up a suit for Sherlock’s scrutiny. Its design closely resembled the pincord, but this one was cut out of a fabulous graphite moleskin, the nap a rich glow of melted dark chocolate. 

“Oh yes.” Sherlock’s whole face lit up in appreciation. He shot Mycroft a quick glance, searching for his approval.

“Positively edible,” Mycroft opined, taking a small bite of his _macaron_ to indicate he couldn’t care less about his brother’s earlier remark, or his opinion on Mycroft’s weight and diet. As usual it was a _very good macaron_ , worthy of the sin he committed in nibbling it. He’d just have to put in an extra hour on the despised treadmill this evening.

The suit joined the pincord on the rack beside the changing cubicle. 

Sherlock drifted around the premises, the assistant hovering a few feet away from him, careful not to invade his personal space. Whenever Sherlock lifted a sleeve or fingered the lapel of a particular jacket the boy sprang to attention, his whole frame quivering with the nervous vigilance of a meerkat on the lookout for danger, only to slump back to a less watchful posture as Sherlock shook his head and continued his seemingly aimless inspection of the shop’s offerings. 

All the while the assistant was scanning the racks for an offering that would appeal to his customer. Approximately five minutes had lapsed in this fashion when he appeared to assemble all his courage and headed towards a particular corner of the room. There he drew forth the suit Mycroft had venerated so when they were still standing outside, and presented it to Sherlock. “How about this suit?” he said, his tone almost rough with repressed rapture. “It must have been designed with you in mind, begging your pardon, sir.”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to smirk as he watched the flush of infuriated indignation overtake Sherlock’s features. “I don’t like that suit,” he replied in a tight voice before pivoting on his heel and striding off to the other side of the shop. Mortified, the assistant cast a dejected look after his departing figure and hung back the ensemble. Mycroft pecked at his _macaron_ some more.

In the end a charcoal-grey merino wool, a luscious blend of virgin wool and mohair in a dark ebony hue, and an onyx gabardine were hung on the rack as well and Sherlock betook himself into a cubicle to embark on the laborious chore of changing into and showing off the various outfits.

Mycroft used the interval to indicate he’d like another espresso. It arrived with a fresh platter of delicacies. These he pushed aside to prevent the savoury smell wafting up from the small almond cakes from distracting him. He busied himself with a deep contemplation of the silver band around his umbrella handle instead. The elder shop assistant lingered close to the cubicle, ready to aid Sherlock, should he ask for assistance. The boy hung back near the window, his gaze drawn irresistibly to Mycroft’s jacket and trousers and duly disregarded by their owner. 

That morning Mycroft had taken great joy in dressing himself in the suit his tailor had had delivered to him the previous Monday. The feel of the luxurious Glen plaid against his finger pads had sent shivers down his spine as he hitched the trousers over his hips. He’d swivelled to all sides in front of his dressing mirror to admire the waistcoat, and silently congratulated his tailor for a job well done. The item was an advertisement for the wonders wrought by British bespoke tailoring, its clever lines enticing the eye to overlook the less attractive area of his abdomen and linger instead on the expanse of his chest. Mycroft loved the contrast between the stark black and white of the Prince of Wales pattern, threaded through with an adventurous line of sheer holly green, and the jade of the silk that made up the back panel of the waistcoat, as well as the lining of the jacket and trousers. The broad sweep of the jacket’s shoulders aided to further encourage the idea of strong virility at the height of its powers.

His shirt maker had sewn him a few wonderful matching shirts, a snowy-white twill, a pinpoint oxford in the same hue of jade green as the silk lining of the suit and the one he was currently wearing, a three-ply striped poplin, paper white with a thin line of the same holly green that was threaded in the pattern of his suit. 

“That colour suits you really well, Mr Holmes,” his shirt maker had said when he proposed the pinpoint oxford, which Mycroft had at first considered to be quite daring. “Most people look rather off in green, but you’re one of those persons where it adds to the complexion, and it contrasts nicely with your auburn hair. And here,” the man had chuckled discreetly, “I have a silk that’s just the thing for you. It will make you _the_ apposite tie, wouldn’t you agree?”

Mycroft most certainly did. The tie, jade green with a pattern of open and closed umbrellas in holly green, and corresponding pocket-square were the cherry on the cake of an ensemble he considered one of the finest he’d worn in years.

He had long since given up on his endeavours to convert Sherlock to the exquisite joys of bespoke tailoring. Mycroft cherished every second he whiled away at his tailor’s – rubbing various cloths between his finger pads to test their suppleness, brushing his hand over a bolt of pure cashmere to luxuriate in the sensation of the fabric’s texture against his skin. He’d devote precious hours to discussing the pros and cons of different materials, standing beside his tailor at the workbench, their heads close together while they sampled the wares. Then there would be the delightful intimacy of the measuring, deft fingers arranging the tape measure along his back, around his chest, waist and hips, along the outside of his leg, the inside of his thigh. These were followed by regular visits for the fitting, the suit, having started life as a few yards of two-dimensional cloth, acquiring its characteristics and own personality under the careful guidance of patient hands. In Mycroft’s mind the first session after the jacket’s padding had been added always carried an extra momentum. He would stand before the fitting mirror and behold how – through the aid of the miracles crafted by the humble man kneeling at his side with his mouth full of pins to do something indefinite but essential to the seam of his left sleeve – his body was transformed from one that would serve well enough in ordinary life, into the figure of the steel-cored, discreet civil servant he was at heart. Omnipotent, omniscient and frightening in all his aspects.

In the end, clothes truly _did_ make the man. 

Sherlock, however, declared haughtily he couldn’t afford to waste precious time on something as unimportant as the manufacture of his wardrobe. In the beginning, shortly after Sherlock settled at Cambridge, Mycroft had reproached him for his wrongheadedness, elaborating on the necessity of a pair of well-fitted trousers and the prerequisite of a lapel that stayed put when one happened to raise one’s arm.

“I don’t think the flimsy atrocity you were wearing would pass that particular test,” he chuffed, caressing the crook of Sherlock’s neck with his lips and trailing his fingers further down the flowing long line of his brother’s flank.

“Fine,” Sherlock gritted between his teeth and before Mycroft knew what was happening his brother was upright beside the bed, naked but for the jacket, and with both arms in the air. 

Mycroft fought down a broken noise that was desperate to escape from his throat at the sight. A part of him – that steel core in all probability, and right then he was immensely grateful for its existence – registered that the lapel’s notches were still in their designated place, stuck snugly just beneath Sherlock’s collarbones. The rest of Mycroft, the human part, was instantly whipped up into a raging fire of base desire.

“Come here,” he commanded in a voice hushed with hunger. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth quirked in a wicked grin as he abided by the order, the tip of his tongue darting out for a slow lick along the heavy shelf of his lower lip.

Thus, Mycroft had been forced to cede defeat. His test had proven beyond all reasonable doubt that his younger brother’s body was the epitome of every fashion designer’s secret dream. With his lithe limbs, narrow hips and well-toned chest he was the embodiment of the sartorial elegance they worked so hard to convey through the items they designed. Small wonder, then, that every item of clothing he deigned to wear fitted him as well as if it were bespoke.

Still, Mycroft supposed, it wouldn’t do to mourn the fact nature had been kinder to his sibling than to him. After all, _he_ was the one to whom the fortuitous fruit of her endeavours was revealed in all his glorious states, whether draped – soft and pliant – over Mycroft’s sheets, whirling around the room in a silk dressing robe or stalking about in a god-awful pair of trousers, that yet managed to cling suggestively to Sherlock’s shapely behind. 

At least Sherlock was vain – unsurprisingly perhaps, but then he habitually professed not to give a fig about his looks – so that gave Mycroft something to work with. His battle plan wasn’t that elaborate – yet proved to be highly effective. With a little coaxing and threatening – he had long since discovered Sherlock was easiest to handle when approached as a seven-year-old – he elicited the promise to have Sherlock accompany him to some high-end stores one day. Much thought had been employed in deciding upon the various venues to be visited. Once there Mycroft relied on his sibling’s remarkable powers of observation. For a Sherlock dressed in a – albeit readymade – handsome cashmere outfit still looked better than a Sherlock dressed in the atrocious mix of cheap wool and polyester he was in the habit of snatching off the rack at stores Mycroft wouldn’t have entered if his life depended upon it. As expected, Sherlock was vanquished effortlessly by his reflection in the shop’s dressing mirror, sparing Mycroft the need to resort to the volley of persuasions he had prepared just in case. 

“I really like this,” Sherlock murmured while his fingers brushed the gunmetal-grey cashmere sheeting his thigh and his gaze made love to the striking young man that kept twisting and turning and smiling at him, imitating his every move. For once, Mycroft was in complete concurrence with his brother’s assessment, and so a tradition was born. Every spring and autumn Mycroft would collect Sherlock for a day of relentless shopping. They each had their assigned role with Sherlock dashing into and out of changing rooms and cubicles and Mycroft flashing his credit card. The murderous tempo Sherlock kept up frankly exhausted Mycroft, but every time he fell down onto the comfortable cushions of some hotel for their tea, at the end of yet another gruelling day, he’d quietly congratulate himself on a job well done.

Behind Mycroft the door of Sherlock’s cubicle was flung open and Sherlock twirled into the shop. As ever, he’d put on his shoes again after changing into the trousers. He was a firm devotee of the ‘complete look’. 

“What do you think, Mycroft,” he crowed. “I knew this would be just the suit for me.”

“Very nice,” Mycroft admitted. To say anything else would have been a lie. Any shade of black or grey favoured Sherlock’s colouring. That, together with the slim cut of the suit, was enough to drive the message home to anyone who had eyes in his head what the quintessence of true poise and refinement looked like. The missive might have been delivered with all the subtlety the medieval masters put into the expressions of the numerous saints undergoing the horrific torture that ensured their sainthood, but, like the paintings, and statues and stained glass windows, it brooked no argument. 

“And look.” Sherlock shucked the jacket, and tossed it over the back of the chair nearest to Mycroft before one of the assistants could have darted forward to accept it from him. “I just _love_ these.” 

He swivelled around to present his backside to Mycroft, who swore beneath his breath at the brazen action. Sherlock really could be a trollop and the most terrible tease. The urge to slap the behind that wriggled far too close for comfort in front of his nose, rose in Mycroft while his blood, equally eager, rushed southwards. Briefly closing his eyes, he willed the flow to a stop and after opening them again forced his eyes away from the enchanting view of his brother’s tightly clad buttocks, up to the small of his back where Sherlock’s fingers were fluttering at his sides.

“You see?” Sherlock asked with a beatific smile, looking down at Mycroft over his shoulder from beneath his fringe of innocently tousled curls. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and settled his gaze on the small straps at either side of the waistband. They were adorned with stainless steel buckles and were meant to tighten the waistband in lieu of a belt. “Ingenious,” he said. “Just the kind of detail to appeal to your scientifically inclined mind.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock affirmed. “And have you taken a good look at the cloth, Mycroft? It feels wonderful.” His right hand crept down and smoothed over the curve of his cheek. Mycroft bit down on the inside of a wholly different part of his own anatomy.

“Be so kind as to hand me the jacket, please?” he directed. Sherlock shot him a quick look and – recognising he’d gone too far – hastened to obey.

“Do you wish me to put it on again?” The tone of his voice had dropped to one of loving respect and servitude.

“That won’t be necessary,” Mycroft shushed. He flattened his palm against the front panel Sherlock was holding up for him, to appreciate the finish of the miniscule ridges against his skin. The textile felt as warm as the glow of the nap. 

“All right,” he said. “Now how about the moleskin?”

Sherlock’s face lit up and the quick quirk of his lips told Mycroft a ‘thank you’ had nearly fallen from them. The jacket ended up in the hands of the elder assistant and Sherlock whirred back into the changing cubicle where the moleskin had already been hung by the boy. 

Four minutes later he barged out again, the boy quickly slipping inside to pick up the discarded pincord trousers and fold them for transport. 

“Oh,” he oozed, satisfaction glittering in his eyes. “This one is even better.” 

“Indeed.” Mycroft dipped his head in the direction of the younger assistant. “Very well chosen,” he complimented the boy. A blush of happy gratitude overtook the young man’s face, turning it an unattractive tomato red. The poor child, Mycroft thought vaguely. 

“Thank you, sir,” the assistant chirped. “I reckoned the dark chocolate would suit your brother’s skin tone.” 

Well, the boy might suffer under an unfortunate skin tone himself, but he certainly had a good eye. The opulent brown draped a gossamer veil of finely meshed gold over Sherlock’s skin. In sharp contrast his eyes glittered even sharper, aloof and icy like a pair of glacier lakes revealed from the high ridges of his cheekbones.

“I really like the cut of the lapels, what say you, Mycroft?” Sherlock interrupted, insinuating himself into the centre of attention again. Smilingly, Mycroft focused on Sherlock once more. 

“It’s excellent,” he praised. “Be so kind as to turn around.” Sherlock pivoted on the tops of his toes. “A very good piece of workmanship,” continued Mycroft. “Your waist looks exceptionally narrow, very neat. Are the trousers comfortable as well, Sherlock?”

Responding to the oblique command Sherlock whisked off the jacket. The waistband of the trousers rested low on his hips. They were much tighter than the pincord ones, sheeting Sherlock’s behind like a second skin. Slowly, Sherlock slid around again to reveal his front. Mycroft’s breath became a hard knot of pain in his lungs.

He wanted his brother on his knees with his hands behind his back, clad in the trousers solely, legs splayed wide so Mycroft could stand between them and watch himself breaching his brother’s ruddy lips, and look further down yet, past the angles and planes of Sherlock’s torso to the bulge straining against the cloth at the juncture of his thighs. His mind’s eye pictured the shape of Sherlock’s needy member sculpted out in velvety grey with a sheen of melted dark chocolate, and Sherlock’s beautiful shoulders rippling with the urge to move his arms to his front so he could palm himself and stroke what was Mycroft’s prerogative to fondle.

Deliberately, Mycroft crossed his legs. His fingers played with the handle of the umbrella. The comforting feel of the wood helped him to distract his mind from the almost painful fire raging in his loins. 

“I’d advise you to take the suit,” he managed, quietly marvelling at the normalcy of his voice. 

“I will,” Sherlock answered. He was less successful at suppressing the smug satisfaction in _his_ voice. “Which one now?” he asked next. “The onyx, I think. Have you seen the lapels? Nicely done, you’ll have to agree.”

Mycroft nodded his consent for Sherlock to proceed as proposed. He’d speak to his brother later. Or, better still, engage him in an enactment of Mycroft’s ribald fantasy. 

The sleek look of the peaked lapels combined with the jacket’s single button did agree most favourably with Mycroft and the suit joined the others on the shop’s packing counter. The ebony suit followed quickly after.

When Sherlock was ensconced in the cubicle with the charcoal-grey merino Mycroft crooked his finger at the younger assistant. “That other suit you showed my brother,” he spoke into the boy’s ear. “Please be so good as to fetch it for him.”

The young man threw him an enquiring look. “But sir,” he began. Mycroft cut him short with a sharp motion of his hand. “Please,” he said, the tone of his voice indicating he wasn’t posing a request but issuing an order. 

The ugly colour overtook the boy’s cheeks for a second time. “Of course, sir,” he mumbled and scurried off in search of the entreated item. 

“And?” Sherlock pirouetted out of the cubicle in a flurry of limbs bedecked in lusciously glowing merino and halted three feet from Mycroft for his endorsement. 

“Those trousers are the same model as the pincord’s, aren’t they?” Mycroft stated, after trailing his gaze from the top of Sherlock’s head, down to his feet and back up again. 

“Yes, with the same sassy straps,” Sherlock beamed.

“Well, I can imagine in your line of work a slightly looser fit might come in handy. And I must say the buttons are very pretty. Lovely merino as well.”

“From our usual manufacturer,” the elder shop assistant hastened to interject. “Didn’t you choose that liquorice-coloured suit last year? That was the same quality.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock said. “Excellent indeed. I had it on when that bank robber surprised me and tipped me over into the Thames,” he addressed Mycroft. “Mrs Hudson cleaned it up, and I wore it the week after, when you insisted I join you for tea with that _moron_. You never noticed a thing, did you?” 

If truth be told, Mycroft had noticed quite a few things that particular afternoon, Sherlock’s boorish behaviour in front of the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee in particular. Still, Sherlock had completed his assignment to the full satisfaction of everyone concerned, thus entering his name in the good books of some people where Mycroft was eager to have his brother’s name printed in bold capitals. The fact that quite a few persons of repute now owed Mycroft a considerable favour was one of the happy additional outcomes he’d counted upon when he first drew up his scheme. 

The elder shop assistant, meanwhile, had obviously decided to refrain once more from commenting. Mycroft wondered idly whether Sherlock was deliberately riling the man up with his exposés, but decided he couldn’t be bothered to find out. Instead, he spoke to his brother.

“If the fabric is that impervious to your antics I suggest you buy the suit. Especially since you appear to be hooked by those _sassy_ straps.”

Sherlock glowered at him but Mycroft pushed on, paying him no heed. “Now, before we leave, I’d like you to try on the suit of my preference.” 

The scowl on his brother’s face deepened and bright sparks of anger glared in his eyes. “I told you I think it’s stupid.”

“If memory serves you used that other favourite exclamation of yours to dismiss it, but no matter. It is but five minutes of your precious time to change into the suit and convince both me and these gentlemen we are wrong in our assumptions.” Mycroft paused, blinked up at Sherlock, and lowered his voice. “Indulge me.”

“Oh, have it your way then,” Sherlock yielded with bad grace. Before one of the assistants could move, he snatched the hanger from the rack and trudged into the changing cubicle, the set of his shoulders transmitting his displeasure with Mycroft’s demand as clearly as if he were shouting it out at the top of his lungs. Mycroft could hear him swearing in an undertone behind the door. He winked at the younger assistant and wobbled his foot up and down, admiring the pattern of the perforations on the toecap. When the door to the cubicle opened he became even more absorbed in the pattern, watching his brother surreptitiously from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Dreamy serenity radiated in waves from Sherlock’s form. He all but floated into the shop and ended up in front of the biggest dressing mirror to regard himself with a look of awe on his face. Mycroft had to admit the expression was fully warranted. The sight of Sherlock in the suit exceeded even _his_ heady expectation.

“Oh,” the boy breathed, his gaze glued to Sherlock’s slender waist and the flawless drop of the jacket over the curve of his backside, “I just _knew_ that suit was made for you, sir.”

“So it seems.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with self-satisfaction as he twirled in front of the mirror, his eyes devouring the image that smiled back at him. In doing so he caught sight of Mycroft’s face which was reflected in the glass, beaming his approval.

A frown flitted over his features and Mycroft understood his brother reminded himself in that moment that Mycroft was the one who had advised him to give the ensemble a chance. The next instant the haughty lip curl of disdain emerged in the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. With an aggressive roll of his shoulders he brought up his hands to start tearing off the jacket.

Fortune chose that moment to intervene on Mycroft’s behalf. The echo of Sherlock’s quick, angry movements thrown by the mirror caught his attention, made him pause first and observe after. Mycroft could see scientific mind taking over; the evidence in front of his eyes pointing out loud and clear that Mycroft had been right in his assumption the suit would suit Sherlock like no other. Sherlock’s hands fondled the lapels and slid down the jacket’s front in a loving caress of both the piece of clothing and the body it enveloped. He became as enthralled with the elegant creature in the glass as Narcissus had been when he first caught a glimpse of himself in the glassy pool that was to spell his doom. Mycroft would have laughed and chided him for his vanity, if he hadn’t been busy swallowing down the moan of rapture that threatened to force itself past his lips. 

With tremendous care, he re-crossed his legs.

“I’d say ‘boring’ is an inadequate adjective after all, wouldn’t you?” he managed at last, pushing his legs even tighter against each other to shield his groin from glimpsing his brother. In that moment, Mycroft was grateful he had held on to his umbrella. He sought support from it, gripping the handle so hard he was certain he could feel the sturdy wood crack in his closed fist. 

“God, yes,” Sherlock affirmed in a husky voice. He was still gobbling up his reflection. “Definitely not boring. I need to have it, Mycroft.”

“And so you shall,” Mycroft answered, relaxing his grip on the handle. Sherlock spun on his heel, tearing himself away from his own image, and locked his gaze in Mycroft’s. 

“Thank you,” he mouthed. 

Mycroft inclined his head in acknowledgement. His heart skipped a beat in a way that was perhaps not wholly appropriate for a man who occupied a minor position in the British government. 

More than anything Mycroft would have wished to be able to kiss Sherlock just then. As a substitute, he procured his pocket watch from his waistcoat, thus providing himself with the excuse to look away from his delectable little brother. He saw Sherlock’s shoes trail past him as Sherlock walked back to the changing cubicle. His fingers gripped the watch a little tighter.

“It’s past noon already,” he said, relieved to find he sounded like himself, a little aloof and haughty. “It’s high time we go find you the rest of your wardrobe. We’re done here, I surmise. Six suits should suffice to help you through the winter months, Sherlock.”

“Yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock’s voice came from behind the door, sounding like the perfect example of brotherly obedience. Clothes, apparently, did not only make a man but also helped making acquiescent little brothers. 

After another forty-five seconds of recomposing himself Mycroft knew he looked presentable again. He used his umbrella to leverage himself up from the fashionably low seat with at least a semblance of ease and ambled over towards the cash register.

“You’ll make sure to add an extra pair of trousers for each suit?” he asked.

“Of course, sir,” the assistant assured him, opening one of the suit carrier bags to show there were indeed two pairs of trousers inside. “I’ve put the fabric swatches in this bag for you.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft approved, handing the man his credit card. “My chauffeur will come and collect them later in the day. James, you already know him, I believe.”

“Indeed, sir. Now if you would be so kind as to enter your PIN…”

“Aren’t you done yet, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s bored drawl interrupted the pleasant proceedings. He was standing close behind Mycroft, arranging the ends of his scarf through the noose.

“Almost, Sherlock,” Mycroft smiled at him. “Why don’t you go outside and amuse yourself with deducing some unfortunate members of the public?”

Sherlock shot him a look but complied without a sound of protest, allowing Mycroft to end the lowly necessities of the monetary transaction in a cordial atmosphere. The younger assistant helped him into his coat and handed him his scarf, and Mycroft left the shop with his bag of swatches, a firm handshake and sincere assurances of the appreciation of their patronage.

“Onwards to South Audley Street?” he suggested to Sherlock, whom he found studying the front door of a building on the other side of the street.

“That lock is practically an invitation to walk in and ransack the place. Must be a bunch of idiots living there,” he sniffed.

Mycroft sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Just… not today, Sherlock. Today we have other, more pressing, matters to concern us.”

“Oh yes,” Sherlock replied offhandedly. “It was but an observation, passing the time, you know.”

“Well, let us pass our time in a more genial manner then,” suggested Mycroft.

Together they fell into step and turned into Davies Street, the security detail at a respectful distance behind them. Sherlock had sidled up close to Mycroft and his upper arm grazed Mycroft’s every now and then. Even through all the layers – shirtsleeve, jacket sleeve with lining, coat lining, the sturdy tweed of Sherlock’s coat sleeve and the camel hair of his own – Mycroft felt the warmth of his brother’s body. Each quasi-accidental brush sent a shiver racing down Mycroft’s spine. He brought up his hand for a discreet cough, and stared firmly ahead of him.

“So,” he began. “What else have you been doing lately except for ravaging Mrs Hudson’s precious artefacts? How’s John? Wasn’t he around to curb your usual enthusiasm with regard to inflicting the greatest possible damage in the shortest possible time?”

Sherlock snorted. “He had a date with that dull accountant again. She’s even worse than the last girlfriend, and I was convinced he’d already hit rock bottom with that one. Why he persists with all the bother is beyond me. Still, I haven’t seen him this morning so I suppose his strategy of wining and dining her paid off, and he attained his goal of three minutes libido gratification.” 

“The man is in search of a long-term relationship. You can’t blame him. Most people do, from what I’ve heard.”

“That’s nonsense, Mycroft. You’re the only person worth having a relationship with and you’re already in a relationship with me. So why would anyone else even try?”

Years of careful training kicked in to prevent Mycroft from stuttering to a halt and throwing his brother an incredulous look. Nevertheless, his shoulders must have tensed a little for Sherlock raised his right eyebrow, a peevish expression waiting behind the curtain of his scarf to overtake his features. “What?” he asked, with evident irritation.

“Nothing,” Mycroft said. “Nothing.” He forced himself to walk on at the quick pace Sherlock preferred. His brother had just made him a declaration of love, he presumed, in his own uniquely Sherlockian way. Next to him Sherlock strode along, hands in the waist pockets of his coat, a vague smile tweaking his lips.

In South Audley Street they headed straight for the supplier of Sherlock’s socks. Mycroft was always secretly amazed at the great number his little brother managed to run through, but he conjectured it was all due to the legwork Sherlock partook in on a regular basis. It was the same with the shoes, really, at least three new pairs every season. 

In the shop Sherlock marched up to the counter and placed his standard order, twenty pairs of black knee length socks. In some respects he was a shockingly conventional creature. Not that Mycroft had any objections. 

They both agreed there were few prospects more pitiful in the world than a sliver of a man’s naked shin peeping out from beneath the hem of his trousers. The vista of Sherlock clad in nothing but a pair of knee length socks knitted out of shiny mercerised cotton, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely. 

Mycroft distinctly remembered the first time the socks had served a purpose of a more deviant nature. He had found time in his agenda for a stealthy visit to the Scilly Islands, over a decade ago now. They hadn’t seen each other for weeks and exhausted themselves making up for lost opportunities during the first two days. On the third day they’d made a small tour of the Island, had dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, and been readying themselves for bed with nothing more in mind than snuggling close to each other for the night and perhaps some half-sleepy wake-up sex in the morning. Still in shirt and pants himself – Mycroft was, after all, in the habit of wearing more clothes to divest himself off than Sherlock – Mycroft had chanced to look over towards Sherlock who was already fully naked, except for his socks, and just sitting down on the edge of the bed to take them off. The sight of the sheer cotton clinging to the lower half of his brother’s lithe legs had driven Mycroft wild. “Leave them,” he’d said in a voice rendered hoarse with lust. The next instant he had flipped Sherlock over and pushed him down into the duvet with shaking hands.

“Please,” he’d begged. Sherlock had laughed, presenting his plush bottom and wiggling it with a suggestive sway of his hips, until he’d looked over his shoulder at Mycroft. Then his eyes had gone liquid and dark, his mouth fallen open as his tongue snaked out to swipe past the bow of his upper lip, leaving it radiant and wet. “Yes,” he’d hissed. Fingers clumsy with need, Mycroft had set to preparing him, for too short a time perhaps, as Sherlock was still impossibly tight when he’d breached him, but then, Sherlock always claimed he liked it a little rough, and he hadn’t protested but rolled up his hips and pushed back to take him in deeper.

“All right?” Mycroft had asked, breathless already.

“Yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock had bitten back. “Just get on with it, would you? I’m not made of glass.” And he’d slid the arch of his foot along Mycroft’s calf, soft ribbed cotton crinkling the few sparse hairs growing there. That had been enough to unclasp the last buckles of restraint, and he’d pounded into his brother, head resting between the sharp shoulder blades that rose from Sherlock’s back like a pair of tiny, wicked Eros wings, fluttering in their mutual debauchery. He’d gasped his brother’s name and Sherlock had gasped his, urging him to go “faster”, “harder, Mycroft”, almost shouting “God, yes, that’s it”, his elbow moving furiously in perfect synchronisation with each of Mycroft’s thrusts.

He’d come harder than ever before, riding Sherlock with mindless abandon, for once not caring about his brother’s pleasure as he spent himself deep inside his body. His directness hadn’t put off Sherlock in the least. To the contrary, his hands and lips had kept ghosting over Mycroft, trailing along the scatter of freckles on his arms and legs, the smattering of hair that ran south from his navel. In mere minutes Mycroft had quickened under his ministrations and been ready for another round; this time to enjoy the perverse sensation of Sherlock’s clothed heels digging into the small of his back. All too soon Sherlock’s whole body had tensed and he’d moaned, cock pulsing between them, his orgasm clenching around Mycroft, and sending him crashing over the edge in a torrent of heat and ecstasy for the second time that evening.

Now a shop girl was carefully folding the accessories of future depravity into a glossy shopping bag. Mycroft paid while Sherlock fiddled with his phone beside him, profound boredom eddying from him in waves. Instructions as to the collection of the items were given, and then they were outside and Mycroft was able to breathe freely once more.

“Jermyn Street next?” he proposed.

“Obviously,” Sherlock agreed. That appeared to be the end of it, but then he added, as an afterthought, “Thank you for the socks, Mycroft.”

Inwardly, Mycroft cursed him. He buttoned up his coat despite the fact that the camel hair was perhaps a bit too warm for the time of year. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Sherlock watching the movement of his hands. The corners of Sherlock’s lips curved upwards in quiet triumph.

“Stop it,” hissed Mycroft. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“You like it,” he stated matter-of-factly. 

“Perhaps, but not out here in the open.”

“Ah, the weakness of the habitual voyeur. You must be allowed to see everything but wish to pass throught the streets unseen. Don’t worry, Mycroft. We’re surrounded by total morons, as it is.”

“Certainly. But all it takes is for one _moron_ to be a bit more observant than the rest of them.”

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbled, making a show of looking into the window of the shop they were walking past. “If it bothers you.”

Sometimes Sherlock would choose to be dim on purpose. To change both the subject and the murky atmosphere that had settled over them, Mycroft enquired, in as cheery a manner as he could muster, “Shoes first, or shirts?”

“Oh, shirts, definitely. You look like an idiot with that tiny bag in your hand. The sooner you can leave it behind the better.”

“You can carry it,” offered Mycroft, amused by the note of offense in Sherlock’s voice. “It contains the fabric swatches of _your_ suits after all.”

His younger sibling’s glare informed him Sherlock considered adjusting his earlier statement of Mycroft _looking_ like an idiot to Mycroft actually _being_ an idiot. Apparently, Mycroft’s time for shoulder-shrugging and lip-curving had arrived. The bag, dangling nonchalantly with his umbrella from his curled fingers, didn’t encumber him. If it had, he would have handed it over to one of the security men trailing faithfully behind them. The colour didn’t clash with his new brolly, which really was a spruce accessory; the sun positively sparkled on the green silk. Occasionally, happiness was to be derived from life’s simpler pleasures.

“That woman has just discovered her lover has been unfaithful to her,” Sherlock said out of the blue, angling his head imperceptibly for anyone but his brother towards the woman who was just sweeping by on Mycroft’s right.

“Making eyes at me,” Mycroft deadpanned. He’d been too distracted to notice.

“Exactly. She’s desperate. That man with the blue scarf thinks he’s put two and two together about us as well. According to him I’m your kept man, Mycroft.”

“Well, he’s not that wide of the mark,” Mycroft said coolly, but he swerved away from Sherlock nevertheless. Sherlock sighed his most put-upon sigh. 

“It’s not like we’re holding hands, Mycroft. Besides, he doesn’t know who we are. He’s just a frustrated bank clerk from Islington with a failing marriage and living in the secret fear he might be gay. Which he is. it’s the reason for his marriage falling apart, his wife has figured it out by now, and it explains why he’s paying attention to two nattily dressed men walking together to begin with.”

“Excellent deductions all, Sherlock. Now let’s get on with the business of shopping and reserve the love talk for some other time and place, shall we? Away from pricked-up ears and prying eyes, that is.”

Luckily, by now they had entered St. James’s Street so Sherlock was willing to let the subject drop.

“Have you thought about the number of shirts you need?” Mycroft guided him some more.

“I had to throw out quite a lot of shirts this summer,” Sherlock droned, thus not answering Mycroft’s question at all.

“Well, I’m glad you decided to keep the one you’re currently wearing,” Mycroft praised. “You can choose as many shirts as you like. How many did we buy last season?”

“Five. Two whites, the lilac, that sea-green one and the one with the skull-pattern,” Sherlock replied after a beat.

“There you are,” Mycroft said with satisfaction. “I want you to select eight at the minimum. Only promise me you will pick a black one as well.”

“I still have that one with the sooty pinstripe,” Sherlock protested.

“That’s excellent news. No reason why you shouldn’t have another. Black suits you.”

“I know it does. But I like my shirts to be a shock of colour.”

“That’s why you can have eight shirts, Sherlock. It’s just the one. That shouldn’t be too much of a sacrifice.”

“The hard lot of a kept man.” Sherlock’s mouth quirked.

“The notion amuses you? I’ll see what I can do to put it to our mutual advantage. And now I want you to shut up.” Their destination had come into sight and Mycroft preferred not to be arguing while they entered the premises. 

“Oh, _fine_.” A sulking note had crept into his brother’s voice, but – thankfully – he did indeed shut up. 

“Gentlemen, welcome,” the shop assistant greeted them, holding the door open for them and motioning them inside. She was a woman in her forties, unobtrusively elegant, with a great shock of beautiful slate-grey hair piled high on top of her head. Mycroft admired her for her affable authority. “It’s time to replenish the stock, I gather,” she smiled. “We have some lovely new shirts, you’ll see, Mr Holmes.” This last sentence addressed to Sherlock.

Meanwhile she had relieved Mycroft of his bag and both of them of their coats and scarves. Sherlock was already bent over the display case, taking inventory of the new arrivals, small noises of satisfaction emerging from his throat.

“You look like you could do with a cup of tea,” the woman told Mycroft. She planted him in one of the comfortable club chairs to the side of the shop. “Best seats in the house,” she winked at him. Two minutes later she was back with a small pot of tea, a reasonably decent Orange Pekoe by the smell of it, half a lemon in a plate silver lemon press and a two-tier silver plate étagère. On the top tier four chocolate _macarons_ were prettily arranged, while the lower tier held an assortment of _financiers_. Having taken care of his immediate welfare she switched her attention to Sherlock. Mycroft ruminated the _financiers_. The tiny almond cakes looked delectable. As Mycroft was aware of their provenance he knew they _were_ delectable. He sighed and poured himself a cup of tea. His stomach sent him clear signals it could do with a little filling. Breakfast had consisted of a red grapefruit, an egg-white omelette with three cherry tomatoes and four cups of Prince of Wales tea. Since then he’d had nothing but the one _macaron_ in Brook Street. He was desperate for a treat.

Just then Sherlock tore himself from his contemplation of the shop’s offerings. 

“I’m famished,” he declared. “What have you got there, Mycroft?” He stalked over towards Mycroft’s quiet corner, grabbed the teacup and downed the liquid in one go. The cup was replaced and rapacious fingers swept over the étagère to round up the _financiers_. “Small wonder you’re on a perennial diet when you keep stuffing yourself at every opportunity,” he reproached Mycroft and crammed them into his mouth. Mycroft watched as Sherlock munched, once, twice, his jaws making short work of the savoury delicacies before swallowing and launching them on their way to his digestive system with a visceral bob down the pale column of his throat. 

To stifle his anger, and to rid himself of that last image, Mycroft shook his head. Valiantly, he endeavoured to transform his frown of disappointment into one of annoyance. “Go find yourself some shirts, Sherlock,” he advised his brother, turning away to pour himself a new cup of tea. His hands trembled ever so slightly. He willed his mind to a contemplation of the Dorchester’s scones, which were excellent; he’d recompense himself with having an extra one of those – with strawberry jam _and_ clotted cream.

A wide array of shirts spanning nearly the whole of the colour palette had materialised on the display counter. 

“Now this one has arrived only this morning,” the assistant was saying. “I confess I was taken aback a little when I discovered them but now I confess I’m rather glad. For I think it will go remarkably well with the suit in that lovely moleskin you’ve got here. What do you say?”

She held up a shirt in a shade of pink. To describe the hue as ‘bold’ would have been the understatement of the year. Mycroft almost spluttered on his sip of tea.

“A bit glaring perhaps,” he forwarded. “What’s the name of the colour? ‘Shocking pink.’”

“Oh no,” the woman smiled. “That adjective was already used for this one.” She held up a shirt in a warm cobalt-blue hue. The term did indeed fit admirably well. “This tint is described as ‘hot pink’. Very adequately chosen in my opinion.”

“Oh yes. Oh, I _do_ like it.” The words tumbled from Sherlock’s mouth. His fingers plucked at the shirt. “Just look, Mycroft. Three-ply poplin,” he keened in a riot of lust.

“It seems a bit loud,” Mycroft demurred.

“That really depends on the suit one’s wearing it with,” the assistant interjected. Clearly, she’d decided to cast her lot with Sherlock in this one. “A black suit with this shirt is a definite road to disaster. But with this fabric…” Her hand stroked the moleskin lovingly and she chuckled. “I agree with you, Mr Holmes. On most men it would look pitifully brassy, but it will suit your brother admirably, with that lovely pale skin of his. It will, in fact, look exquisite,” she declared with the passion of a minister called upon to defend a new law in the House of Commons. 

“There you have it, Mycroft.” Just then Mycroft could have slapped his younger sibling for the impertinent satisfaction permeating the sentence.

“You can try it on, if you must.” To _his_ satisfaction he noted his words carried the right amount of haughty benevolence, and the warning he wouldn’t rake up the cash for it. If Sherlock was determined to dress himself in garish shirts, he could pay for them himself. 

“How about the _‘shocking blue’_ one,” he next attempted to steer Sherlock away from the article he had his heart set on. “It will bring forth the green in your eyes. Besides, it’s a beautiful Royal Twill.”

“Yes, I was considering it. Thank you, Mycroft.” Heavy sarcasm dripped from Sherlock’s voice. “Your distraction technique won’t work, I assure you.” Sherlock laid the shirt on top of the pink one. “But I like this one even better.” His hands were caressing a corn silk white Royal Oxford. 

“Very pretty,” the assistant concurred, while surveying Mycroft. “Especially with these nice buttons. Vegetable ivory, always classy. And it’s… oh yes, super slim fit. Well, that should do your figure full justice. Allow me?” The request addressed to Sherlock, who let go of the shirt so she could shake it out and show the neatness of the waist. “An excellent choice if I may say so.”

“What say you, Mycroft?”

“It will do well enough.” His grudging answer appeared to satisfy Sherlock. 

“Since you insist I have a new black shirt as well, how about this one?” Sherlock walked over towards Mycroft with a shirt in a softly glowing black poplin sprinkled with a barely visible pattern of tiny silvery circles. “Here. That should do it, don’t you agree?” Like a conjuror he brought forth the swathes of the midnight black pincord and onyx virgin wool. 

“You couldn’t have chosen better.” Mycroft accepted the olive branch. 

“Well, there’s nothing to it, I understand,” replied Sherlock, eyeing him with an expression that was at least as dark as the shirt before turning on his heels and marching back to the counter to select a shirt he actually liked.

Having drunk his tea Mycroft rose to his feet and joined Sherlock and the assistant at the counter.

Half an hour later eight shirts had been more or less decided upon. Their colours ranged from a glossy eggshell white to a luscious dove grey with just a hint of imperial purple. The pink shirt was not among them. The assistant had sorted them according to fit, super slim or slim. Thus Sherlock would have to don just two for deciding upon the right size. 

“Perhaps that corn silk you like so much and the black one?” Mycroft suggested helpfully.

“All right,” Sherlock complied, remarkably meekly. He betook himself into a changing cubicle with the shirts and a mien of ingenuous bliss. In the interim the assistant began to refold the shirts Sherlock had mulled over and rejected. Her clever hands blinked like rapid flashes of light over the different shades and materials. Once she was done she enquired, “Can I fetch you some more tea?”

“If it wouldn’t inconvenience you,” Mycroft acquiesced. 

“Not at all.” She had just taken herself off with the teapot when Sherlock descended from the changing cubicle, bedecked in corn silk Egyptian cotton in a super slim fit. The ethereal white of the fabric added a dollop of rich cream to his throat and cheeks. He twirled around with his arms spread wide, his curls dancing on top of his head, as guilelessly innocent as a ten-year-old who’d been assigned the part of an angel in a Nativity play.

With a haste that was perhaps a tad undignified Mycroft hurried for the safety of the club chair and crossed his legs in a valiant attempt to conceal the evidence of his reaction to the tableau in front of him.

“Well, what do you think?” Sherlock enquired. A decidedly un-angelic twinkle glittered in his eyes. As he’d probably planned all along, his swirl around the premises had come to a halt in front of a dressing mirror. Now the long flowing line of his back was presented to Mycroft while he pretended to worry the collar, all the while observing Mycroft. A devilish little smile twitched in the right corner of his mouth.

“I think it is totally lovely,” Mycroft answered truthfully. His mind was set on a fresh round of cursing his brother loudly. He took his impotent fury out on the poor umbrella handle, which was having a hard time of it in the sweat-soaked grip of his hand. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock said, drawing his hands down his flanks. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

 _The bloody little tart. Maybe he should have that odious pink shirt, after all, to announce to the world at large what a cheeky tease he was._ Mycroft scraped his throat. “No. My own tailor couldn’t have done a better job.”

“Ah.” It seemed that had been exactly what Sherlock wanted to hear. He preened and posed in front of the mirror some more, pretending to be riveted by his own reflection, but darting glances at Mycroft continuously. “Then I’ll have this one,” he said at last, satisfied with the effect of the shirt on his older brother. “And the blue one, the purple paisley, the dove grey, and that white one with the charcoal pinstripe,” he pointed. 

“Excellent.” The shop assistant had returned with the tea and deposited the pot on the table next to Mycroft. “I’ll start packing them.” 

Sherlock made himself scarce and disappeared into the changing cubicle, allowing Mycroft some recovery time. The tea he poured himself helped him to soothe his nerves. After a slight hesitation he pulled out his mobile to check his agenda. The phone’s display greeted him with the warning he had received a hundred and forty-eight messages from his PA during the last four hours. These he thumbed away. His agenda was blessedly free of any appointments on Thursday night. He blocked it from six onwards. He’d send Sherlock an invitation for dinner later, after he’d dropped him off at Baker Street. Otherwise he’d never hear the end of it during the rest of the day.

The door of the changing cubicle banged open again and Sherlock strode into the shop bedecked with the armour of the black shirt. The sunlight streaming through the shop window flashed on the tiny silver circles printed on the fabric. For an instant Sherlock was a magnificent knight in a hauberk, ready to slay a dragon… or devour one. All he needed was a longsword to add to the illusion. The stare he threw Mycroft was positively fierce.

“Well,” he said.

“What do you think yourself?” was Mycroft’s mild reply.

“It’s all right, I suppose.”

“Oh Sherlock. Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” Mycroft reproved him. “You look ravishing, and you’re all too aware of it. Now be a good boy and admit a black shirt does suit you.”

“If you say so,” Sherlock held out. “So it’s a fait accompli then?”

“If you’d be so kind. You can choose any other colour to your liking for indulging me, except…” Before he could finish his sentence Sherlock had flung himself to the counter and got his hands on the pink eyesore. The next instant he had vanished into the changing cubicle, leaving Mycroft with his mouth agape.

“Perhaps you should fortify yourself with some more tea,” the assistant shushed him. Mycroft was reminded of the innumerable occasions Mummy had mollified him during their childhood in answer to Sherlock’s various misdemeanours. He vividly remembered the time a three-year-old Sherlock had broken Mycroft’s snow globe with its – in the eyes of a ten-year-old Mycroft that was – neat miniature of the Houses of Parliament. Or even worse, when, at the age of four, Sherlock had attempted to draw smiley faces with their father’s fountain pen in Mycroft’s copy of Tacitus’ _Historiae_ , ruining both the book and the pen in the process. With a forced smile he waved off the woman’s well-meant ministrations. Hadn’t history proven time and again that the lot of the elder sibling was to suffer under the antics of the younger? To expect their relationship to diverge from the norm in this aspect as well would be too much of a good thing, he reasoned.

His musings were interrupted by the cubicle door opening for a third time. He raised his head just in time to enjoy the spectacle of Sherlock waltzing onto the shop floor with the grace of an Indian temple dancer, drawing her sari close to provide the public with the chance to catch a tantalising glimpse of her figure beneath the swathes of colourful cloth. The fabric strained over his heaving chest. His lips, shiny and almost as pink as the shirt, were slightly parted and he panted as if he was anticipating some sort of strenuous exercise, or, given the mussed state of his curls, recuperating from it.

“I dare you to deny me this,” he challenged Mycroft, alighting in front of him with a come hither look smouldering in his eyes.

Denial was the last thing on Mycroft’s mind. He was sincerely grateful Sherlock had positioned himself smack bang between himself and the shop assistant so she wouldn’t be able to see his face – and the gulp of his throat as he swallowed.

 _Hot pink indeed._ Mycroft fought down the wish to insert a finger between his collar and his throat to vent the steamy hotness that had suddenly erupted there. His nether regions had risen in tumultuous revolt and overtaken the commando post lodged inside his skull. Thank God his reason was still hanging by his nails from the window ledge and barking at the rampant horde to behave themselves, or he would have toppled Sherlock down to the floor and ripped the clothes from his body to have his way with him right there in the middle of the shop. Now the throng backed down as he tossed them the scenario of Sherlock on his knees in the moleskin trousers, enhanced by the addition of the shirt. Damn the loss of his view of Sherlock’s bare shoulders, delicious as it was. The virtual reality of Sherlock’s vulnerably naked throat rising from the flamboyant pink was infinitely more alluring, especially when his imagination added a sliver of creamy-white chest, peeping from between the open shirt panels. 

Mycroft cursed himself for a fool. No matter what other shirts Sherlock wished to add to his collection, no matter if Mycroft had to buy him _nine_ shirts, Sherlock _must have_ this one.

“Meritorious,” he commented. Then he tore his eyes away from the wanton god of blatant eroticism erected in front of him. “You’ve convinced me. Well done you.”

A smug grin bloomed on Sherlock’s face. “I knew you’d give in,” he said. Thankfully, that appeared to be enough of a victory to satisfy him. He disappeared into his cubicle again while Mycroft made his way to the counter to oversee the pecuniary transactions. 

“I’m glad your brother managed to persuade you, Mr Holmes,” the shop assistant smiled at him while folding the last shirt. “He’s one of those fortunate few who can wear whatever they like, but he’ll look smashing in that shirt and suit. The female half of London won’t know what hit them; as well as a large number of men.”

“Undoubtedly.” Mycroft observed her smile from beneath the partly pulled down screens of his eyelids. She was busy arranging the shirts amidst folds upon folds of tissue paper the colour of a frosty morning, before putting them to rest inside the understated, powdery indigo gift boxes that were the shop’s trademark. Her bearing signalled Mycroft shouldn’t read anything into her remarks, but the innocuous wish to compliment a member of his family on his better-than-average looks. Having laid his suspicions to rest he continued, “Though the appeal will wear off the moment he opens his mouth.”

“He can be a bit brazen. But it suits him, I think.” Her face was all forgiveness for whatever prank Sherlock might wish to pull off as she handed back his credit card. “He may be wild, but he is a good boy at heart.” The shop’s doorbell rang. “Has to work on his manners though,” she added drily.

After helping him into his coat she walked him to the door and they shook hands. “See you next year, Mr Holmes,” she said warmly. “Your brother made some excellent choices today.”

Outside he found Sherlock had already strolled on towards the shoe sellers. As was their wont they spent relatively little time there. Sherlock made his pick of three different pairs of shoes which all shared the same characteristics. They were sturdy first and foremost, yet refined as well, with pointed toes that made Mycroft’s own curl in sympathy as he imagined having to wring his own foot into the confines of the narrow last. The leather of the soles, on the other hand, was too flexible for his taste, but Sherlock fussed over that detail endlessly. He took a stand in bending the shoes and torturing the leather of the soles, much to the chagrin of the shop assistants, who only kept quiet because they knew in the end Mycroft was going to reward their patient suffering by throwing a heady amount of money their way. 

Mycroft wasn’t that much of a fetishist for shoes; to him they were no more than a necessitous accessory. Of course he himself wouldn’t deign to don his feet with anything that didn’t conform to the highest standards of sartorial panache and he expected Sherlock to do the same, but he could withstand the sight of a handsome pair of shoes at the end of his brother’s legs without difficulty. Thus by the time they left the shop he’d fully regained his mental equilibrium and found himself blessedly rid of the warm sensation that had been tingling in his loins

“Well, that leaves just the underwear, and a new robe,” Sherlock said when they were out on the street again, rubbing his hands in satisfied glee.

“Oh.” Mycroft allowed his face to fall. “Must we, Sherlock?”

“Yes, we must,” Sherlock answered in a tone that brooked no argument. “A little hobnobbing with the masses won’t harm you. Surely I don’t need to remind you that they consist of the subjects whose interests you always proclaim to defend.”

“I’m all too aware of the fact,” Mycroft replied stiffly. “However, in order to oversee the proper line of defence it’s best to maintain oneself in a more elevated position.”

“If you had intervened when they started raising the rents on Savile Row, you wouldn’t have had to descend from your mountain top nest to mingle with the hoi polloi.”

“My dear Sherlock, as ever I don’t know whether to be flattered or exasperated by your overestimation of my powers. Considerable they may be, but I assure you it’s easier by far to initiate a minor conflict in the Middle East, should such an unhappy occurrence serve our interests, than to attempt to curb the rise of property prices in the City.”

“Oh shut it, Mycroft. Modesty doesn’t suit you.”

Mycroft sighed, and briefly closed his eyes in resignation. If Sherlock chose to be deliberately obtuse it was no use trying to argue him out of it. “Fine then,” he said, waving his umbrella magnanimously. “Harvey Nicholls it is.”

“Good,” Sherlock smirked. “Ah, and before I forget; thank you for inviting me to dinner on Thursday, Mycroft. Dress code _hot pink_ , I surmise.”

In his chest, Mycroft’s heart made a happy little skip. “You’re even more wicked than the late Miss Adler, brother mine,” he berated Sherlock.

“I might be,” Sherlock replied, breezy. “I’ll combine it with the moleskin suit then, so you can berate me properly.”

“I’d be obliged.” Mycroft bowed his head, no more than a dip of his chin, invisible to anyone but Sherlock.

‘A fine day’ his chauffeur had said that morning, and he’d been completely right.

Thursday, it was now certain, would be even better.

Mycroft was already looking forward to it.


End file.
